Your daughter will have multiple boyfriends, yes multiple….those boyfriends who’ll tell her how she has a big booty and equally big boobs even if she’s a size one as Lupita. Those boys who’ll show up at your doorstep in the evening and instead of the normal respectable way of shaking hands, this lad will clench his fist as if to hit you on the tummy and when you’ll raise your hand to protect yourself, he’ll bump his fist into yours. That’s the greeting, it’s called kugota, kugoteana, kuchoma, kuekelea uzito or any of those funny names they call it, depending on which side of the ghetto they are from. He’ll then ask you if “tortoise” is in the house and since you’ve never bred tortoises in your lifetime, you’ll begin wondering why a stranger should show up at your doorstep, bump his fist into yours and then mistake you for a tortoise farmer. You’ll tell him that he’s knocked on the wrong door but he’ll insist and in between your confused conversation, your daughter will suddenly come to the door and happily hug this strange boy, her boyfriend…your future son-in-law.
Nairobi is no place to raise a daughter…not the Nairobi where she’ll start riding bicycles at a very early age, probably even before she learns how to walk, and later on begin blaming God for taking away her virginity through the holy spirit when the blood won’t flow during her first intercourse. I always pity those little girls that I meet in the evenings riding those nice mountain bikes; wearing those short shorts and tom-boy boots. I really do pity them.
And after the bicycle thing, time will fly by fast, and very soon she’ll be a teenager. Or let me say she’ll grow breasts, and God-willing, a nice butt too. Then the ever present team mafisi boys will start drooling over her. Too bad if she notices that her body parts are attracting the attention of men coz she’ll do anything to keep the attention. She’ll wear those short skirts that expose every part of her thighs and to her upper body she’ll put on an equally revealing top that will always be half buttoned to reveal her cleavage, making her breasts look like they are about to pop out any minute. She’ll do all these just so that the team mafisi men can ogle at her exposed body parts and boost her stupid ego. But then again she’ll get upset when men stare at her for too long. So my question is, why do provocatively dressed women get offended when they see men staring at them? Isn’t that what they are trying to accomplish by dressing like that? These short dresses will be put on regardless of whether it’s sunny, windy, raining or even when it’s snowing. She’d rather freeze to death than dress up in something descent that keeps her warm. You’ll see her shivering cold but to her its ok as long as she looks hot, she’ll even turn down any man who offers her his jacket. Anyway enough of that.
The emergence of the female body parts will signal she’s grown enough to join secondary school, or high school, whichever you choose to call it (although some of them even grow those body parts at seven years). On joining her high school, she’ll find the perfect sport – either tennis or basketball (I wonder why most of them tend to choose either of the two) and as fate would have it, she’ll fall in love, the high school kind of love. I still don’t know whether it’s supposed to be called love, lust or just adolescence at work. Either way she’ll fall in love with a guy from her neighboring school who plays basketball too and happens to come from the famous estates of Kayole. Those boys who dance to the tunes of Rambo Kanambo and put on those multicolored clothes; a blue t-shirt printed vybz kartel on the front, a yellow pair of ‘I-cant-reach-down’ trousers, indigo rubber shoes, and depending on the level of ughetto in them, some add a suspender to crown it all. Now am not good at fashion as such and am not good at drawing imaginations on my mind either but from the description above you can clearly picture the type of person I’m trying to describe…almost looks like a walking advert for Duracoat paints.
And please don’t get me wrong here, am not saying that I hate guys from Kayole, and am not saying that I don’t hate them either. It’s just the Rambo Kanambo boys that I hate….and I also hate Kayole. There’s no day I’ve ever gone to that place and not lost my phone. But that’s personal, let’s get back to your daughter.
Next the Rambo Kanambo boy will invite her to this thing they call bash, or party or kuenda rave as they call it. And as loyal as your daughter is, she won’t want to let her Rambo down, she won’t want to angusha him. But you’ve always been that strict parent, the religious one that believes that kuenda rave is a gateway to hell and your daughter knows quite well you will not allow her to go. So she’ll lie to you about a prayer seminar that’s being held at her school led by Bishop Theon Greyjoy haha. And since bishop Greyjoy’s service will run till late in the night, she’ll politely ask for your permission to sleep at her friend’s house (they mostly use the name Julie to refer to the friend), and being the God fearing parent who doesn’t want to deny your daughter the chance to follow in the footsteps of Christ our Lord, you’ll allow her to sleep out. She’ll then prepare and leave your house dressed in that long dress you bought her for going to church, and you’ll be convinced that indeed your daughter is a man of God, or should I say a lady of God?
But that isn’t what she’ll really look like when she enters the Kingdom of Kayole. She’ll leave your house without her hair extensions, make-up and false eyelashes, or her body-control pants; she’ll look completely different. Inside that small handbag she always carries, she’ll have packed her shortest miniskirt, see-through lace top and a pair of leopard-print ankle boots that she’ll gladly change into as soon as she reaches Kayole. Nobody will really know what she was like when she left your house. But that’s the modern day world, you’re just a parent who’ll believe her innocent daughter is somewhere in a fellowship singing songs of Hallelujah to the Almighty.
And truly indeed she’ll be shouting halleluiah at the top of her voice; the only problem is that she’ll be screaming it to the Rambo Kanambo boy who’ll be happily mounted on top of her beautiful naked body enjoying what the bible preserves only for the married couples. And since she’ll be too drunk to realize what’s happening to her, she’ll go on screaming hallelujah for as long as Rambo Kanambo stays put, completely unaware that they aren’t using any contraceptive.
A month later she tells Rambo she’s pregnant and as is expected, he’ll deny ever having intercourse with her. And now your sweet little daughter will be a pregnant, lonely and heartbroken mother-to-be. In nine months’ time you’ll be a grandparent.
Many have tried raising their daughters in Nairobi, many have failed, and many are still trying…Nairobi is no place to raise a daughter, just as Kisumu is no place to raise a son.